


Sake and Whiskey

by blackwatchandromeda



Series: The Dual Nature of the Universe (Overwatch) [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Dad Reaper | Gabriel Reyes, Dad Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison, F/F, F/M, Family, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Genji Shimada is a Little Shit, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Mom Ana Amari, Multiple Personalities, Nightmares, Noodle Dragons, Post-Canon, Post-Omnic Crisis, Post-Recall, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Slow Burn, Talon - Freeform, Team as Family, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Vishkar - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-03 07:57:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10962987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackwatchandromeda/pseuds/blackwatchandromeda
Summary: When Jesse McCree answers the Overwatch Recall, he is not expecting to meet a taciturn archer with a beautifully complex dragon tattoo.When Hanzo Shimada accepts his brother's request to join him in the reincarnation of Overwatch, he is not expecting to meet an irritating cowboy with a penchant for badly-timed puns and serapes.Sometimes, though, the most unexpected events turn out to be the best ones.





	1. Recall

_Beep_.

McCree's eyes snap open.

 _Beep_.

A high-pitched, staccato sound pierces the silence and McCree pushes himself up into a sitting position, frowning, searching the room around him for the source of the noise.

 _Beep_.

It sounds again and McCree tracks the noise, listening closely for where it's coming from. It sounds oddly familiar, though not anything like the incessant beeping of the countdowns of the multiple bombs and explosive devices he's had experiences with over his lifetime.

 _Beep_.

McCree yanks open his backpack and stares inside, frowning. A tiny red light winks at him from inside, contrasting with the semi-darkness around him, and he reaches inside the bag. He withdraws a small black box with smooth, rounded edges and an embedded screen, currently displaying a pulsing red light. The beeping cuts off when McCree taps the screen lightly.

He'd forgotten he even had his old Overwatch communicator, really. He doesn't know why he kept it: it's old tech now, and it's practically useless. At least, he thought it was useless.

The pulsing red light vanishes and the image on the screen is replaced by a shot of a messy-looking desk, an upside-down piece of paper covered in writing in the centre. Before McCree can begin to read it a hand covers the camera and jerks it upwards, and the cowboy's eyebrows raise in shock as he stares at Winston's face, now filling the screen.

"What the hell?" he murmurs, brow furrowed. He thought the communicator was dead; hell, he only kept it around as a reminder of his days in Blackwatch. He never expected something like this to happen... whatever this is.

"Is this thing on?" comes a grumble from the comm unit's tinny speakers, and Winston stares in puzzlement at the camera. There's a beep and the scene switches, and the gorilla mumbles to himself as he adjusts his glasses. "I made a chronal accelerator. I'm sure I can do this."

McCree snorts.

"To all agents of Overwatch!" Winston announces, looking proudly at the camera. His face falls, and he murmurs something. The camera cuts to another shot of Winston smiling, and he repeats his slightly-amended sentence. "To the _former_ agents of Overwatch! This is Winston." He slumps in his chair slightly, and McCree would probably find it funny were it not for the growing sense of unease in his gut. "Obviously," the gorilla mutters, looking annoyed.

The camera cuts again and now Winston's surroundings are darkened, tinged with dusky shadows. McCree can see the sadness on his face as he says quietly, "Thirty years ago, the Omnics declared war."

Winston launches into a description of the Omnic Crisis and the founding of Overwatch, displaying pictures of the war as he talks. McCree just stares at the communicator; he's heard all this before, knows it as well as every other ex-Overwatch agent, and he's not sure why Winston feels the need to retell their history. Unease fills him as he sees himself in one of the photos, a medal hanging around his neck. He remembers that day, that discussion between him and Gabe.

_"Kid, I know you hate it, but you have to come. You're being honoured for your actions."_

_Jesse huffs, scowling slightly. "I jus' don't know why it has to be so... public."_

_Gabe laughs. "I know what you mean, kid. We all make sacrifices, though. I mean, I've taken off my beanie."_

_Gabe raises his eyebrows and flicks his gaze upwards to his bare head, making Jesse smirk slightly. The Blackwatch commander never goes without his trademark hat and hoodie unless he's forced to by a certain Strike Commander. Jack insisted they all look good for the occasion._

McCree is jerked out of his recollection by a forceful imperative from Winston. "Look around!" he says desperately, eyes wide. Various images flash onto the screen: an explosion in Numbani, attacking omnics, starving citizens, protestors in King's Row. The old Deadlock supply train railway along Route 66, destroyed and flaming.

"Someone has to do something," Winston says passionately. " _We_ have to do something!"

McCree is shaking his head now, staring at the communicator in disbelief. Overwatch is _gone_. It's dead and buried and he'd like to keep it that way, like to prevent him and all the other agents being arrested for participating in now-illegal Overwatch activity.

"We can make a difference again. The world needs us now, more than ever!"

McCree's grip on the communicator is tight as he stares at Winston removing his glasses.

"Are you with me?" he asks, staring into the camera with a grin.

Winston's message fades and dies, and McCree is left staring at two orange boxes. One is labelled "Y", the other "N". McCree frowns as he glares at the two options, unwilling to say yes but unable to say no. It's not that he doesn't want to go back; he's been trying to do good ever since the explosion in Switzerland, trying to carry on Overwatch's work in the little way he can, but he can't help feeling that rejoining the organisation, however unofficial, is a _bad idea_. He didn't know many people well, apart from Gabe and Genji, and the former is dead and the latter quit Blackwatch shortly after McCree. Reforming Overwatch is totally illegal, and McCree doesn't want or need a higher price on his head. He doesn't want to bring the people devoted to arresting him to Winston's doorstep; doesn't want to endanger anyone who accepts his message.

But still, among the many reasons he presents himself with as to why this is a bad idea, there's a small voice in the back of his head that sounds suspiciously like his old commander.

_You could do so much good, kid._

McCree's finger hovers over the screen, and he taps it once and it fades to black, displaying one final message before it dies.

 _GIBRALTAR_.

McCree stuffs the communicator back in his bag and stands up, grabbing and pulling on his clothes as he does so. The spurs on his boots jingle softly as he rapidly shoves them on. A weatherbeaten brown hat is scooped off the ground and positioned on his head as he picks up Peacekeeper, slotting it securely into the holster on the belt around his hip. The last thing he does before he leaves is swing the rucksack onto his back.

It's the dead of night here, in an old safehouse near the US-Mexican border, just outside Ascención. As he steps out of the dark hut the night greets him, the stars in the sky sparkling, the moon illuminating his surroundings in shades of blue. He's been hopping from one house to the next for a while, never letting the people after him gain a foothold in tracking him. He'd been hoping to get a couple of hours' sleep here, but Winston's call has derailed that plan. He'll have to make do with the little rest he's had.

McCree considers briefly how he'll get to Gibraltar; he's wanted in both the US and Spain after an international incident concerning Spain's American ambassador (it's not really his fault; would they rather his would-be assassin had succeeded?) that got blamed squarely on the cowboy. He'll have to tread carefully to get what he needs.

As McCree walks further away from the safehouse, here in the middle of nowhere, he regretfully takes off his scarlet-gold serape and aged hat, and detaches the spurs from his belt. His chest armour comes off next, folding neatly into a compacted cube. McCree still thinks it was one of Torbjörn's best inventions. He stuffs the items into the backpack, concealing them under the layer of black fabric that serves as a false bottom to the bag, knowing they're his most recognisable attributes. Without them, once he's pulled on the black shirt and gloves that cover his prosthetic arm, he looks like any other American; which is just what he needs.

The dusty tarmac in front of him comes into view as McCree crests a hill, the road stretching out into the night. In the distance he can make out the vague outline of a truck coming his way, and he grins. Lucky.

McCree closes his fist, thumb sticking up, and raises his hand in the universal hitchhiker's sign. He can only hope the trucker is nice enough to stop, and friendly enough to take him to the nearest airport. Eventually the truck draws closer, its powerful lights illuminating McCree. It slows to a stop before him, and he grins as the window nearest to him, opposite the driver, rolls down. The man who leans out, burly arm resting on the windowframe, stares at him a little confusedly. McCree supposes he doesn't see many random people hitchhiking in the dead of night.

"Howdy," he says, smiling. The trucker nods back. "Any chance of a lift to El Paso?"

The trucker seems to consider it for a minute, before the door swooshes open and he jerks his head towards the seat next to him. "Goin' that way anyway," he concedes. "Hop in."

"Thank you kindly," replies McCree, grinning, and jumps inside the truck, closing the door firmly shut behind him.

The trucker's already starting to drive again as he says, "Be about two hours, maybe two an' a half 'til we get there. That alright?"

"Perfect," McCree tells him, and leans back into the seat. It's surprisingly comfortable.

Wordlessly, the driver reaches for the interface in the center of the truck, and swipes across the screen. A tune starts up, floating through the speakers either side of McCree's head, and he recognises the opening chords to Homeward Bound. The cowboy restrains a laugh. His ma used to play it repeatedly, and the song is inherently familiar to him.

McCree looks out into the sky as the lyrics ring out, and realises he is indeed homeward bound.

_____________________________________

  
Twenty-two hours later, McCree finally touches down in Spain. After the trucker dropped him off in El Paso he thanked him profusely, then headed to the airport a few minutes away. He had to wait a long time to find a flight landing close to Gibraltar that's got free space, but on the plus side his fake ID worked well; Joel Morricone passed through security without a single hitch.

He's about thirty minutes on foot away from the old Watchpoint in Gibraltar now, and he takes about that long to reach it. The familiar orange rock around him brings a tightness to his chest, an apprehension about returning to Overwatch and the memories it holds, but he tries to ignore it. And, as the communication towers comes into view, standing tall and proud despite the years of misuse, McCree's steps falter slightly. He stops there, staring up at the tower and the building before it, wondering if this was the right choice. He tried to do good in Blackwatch, and it took his arm and destroyed the pseudo-family he found there. He doesn't know if he can go through that again.

McCree swallows and reaches into his backpack, and pulls out his serape, spurs, and chest armour. He quickly puts each item back on and takes his gloves off, slowly reassembling his trademark cowboy exterior, and it gives him confidence. He approaches the building, goes up to where he knows the main, secure door is, and knocks once. The sound reverberates through the area, bouncing off the amber rocks and shining metal surrounding him.

There's a noise from inside, and then a pneumatic hiss. It takes a second before the slab of metal slides upwards to reveal the Watchpoint's entrance corridor.

"McCree!" comes a delighted voice, and the cowboy barely has time to register that it's Genji's voice, that _Genji_ is here, before the cyborg comes barrelling out of the Watchpoint and collides into McCree, hugging him.

McCree laughs. "How you doin', Genji?"

The green strip in the middle of Genji's faceplate flashes brightly, and he nods. "Good. We've all been waiting for you," he says, placing a hand on McCree's back and propelling him inside the Watchpoint. "We got here first, and then Winston told us who else was coming. Everyone who answered the Recall arrived, except you." McCree can tell Genji is grinning under his visor as they walk along the corridor. "And you're here!"

The gunslinger is about to ask what we means when he crosses out of the corridor, and into a large room filled with chatting people. He grins and tips his hat slightly, and the noise immediately subsides as they spot him, replaced by various greetings. He recognises a lot of them: Winston, Lena, Angela, Reinhardt, Torbjörn, and _Fareeha_ , and a collection of other people he's not familiar with. As he stares at the assembled group, Angela gives him a wave and a small smile, and Lena beams. Winston looks like he's about to say something, but then confusion fills his features as he looks at something just beyond McCree, and Angela's face goes tight. McCree turns around, noticing Genji has vanished from the room.

Standing there, in the doorway next to Genji, is a Japanese man with a rolling, curling tattoo covering his left shoulder and a stormy expression. McCree raises an eyebrow.

"Who is this?" Winston asks, evidently as confused as the cowboy is.

Genji tilts his head slightly, a tell McCree knows means he's nervous. "Uh... this is Hanzo." He hesitates before he continues.

"My brother."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Sake and Whiskey! It's a relatively McCree-centric fic that begins with the Recall going through to Post-Canon.
> 
> feat. mchanzo, angst and family
> 
> (Note: Part 1 of Duality, Dust and Gold, focuses on Jesse's Blackwatch days. There'll be some references to it in Sake and Whiskey, but they're readable without each other. However, if you're in the mood for gradual dad!Gabe, why not give it a try?)


	2. Introductions

McCree stares at Hanzo and hears Angela hiss something in German behind him, and the tension in the room suddenly stretches as tight as the bowstring across the newcomer's back. Genji's hand is still on his shoulder, though it looks tight, as though the cyborg is having to physically keep his brother there.

Winston swallows. "Uh... welcome, Hanzo."

The archer doesn't reply, just stares at the ground with a stormy expression, and his hand twitches. McCree has to stop himself reaching for Peacekeeper; the gun has been a safety net all his life, not just for him but others too. And after all he's heard about Genji's brother, he can't help being cautious.

McCree forces his expression to relax into a lazy grin, knowing someone has to break the tension. "Howdy."

Hanzo doesn't meet his eyes, and Genji shifts his weight, clearly not expecting this taciturn silence from his brother.

Suddenly, he says something quietly in Japanese. McCree recognises the language from Genji's early days in Blackwatch, when he was unable to speak more than a few scattered sentences of English. McCree helped him learn it, and in turn Genji taught him a few phrases, though he can't remember most of them.

Genji's visor flashes uncertainly. "I... are you sure?"

"I will not go far," mutters Hanzo, switching into clipped English, and Genji releases his grip wordlessly. The archer storms out of the room, leaving most of its occupants dumbstruck.

"I apologise," Genji says, sounding a little guilty. "I did not realise he would be so... rude."

McCree is about to tell him not to apologise for something that wasn't his fault, but he's interrupted just as he opens his mouth by a torrent of spat German from Angela, shoving past him to reach Genji.

"Why did you bring him here?" she shouts, gesturing wildly with her hands. "He _killed_ you, Genji! This is a place for people who want peace, not... not who _murder_ each other!"

"Angela, I have forgiven him. He means well. I promise."

The doctor narrows her eyes at him. "He had better," she mutters, folding her arms and letting out a long huff.

Silence descends over the room then, the newcomers unwilling to be the first to restart their conversations and the original Overwatch members oddly subdued and silent. Even Lena is quiet; McCree can't remember a time when the upbeat Brit didn't have something to say. He realises that with so many new members present, and so many old ones missing, they've all lost the way to communicate with each other like they once did. McCree knows it, Winston knows it, everyone in the room knows it, and the absence of certain individuals is made so much more obvious because of it. So McCree politely excuses himself, retreating from the gathering before too much of the past can reappear in his mind.

He's not sure what he's expecting to find as he leaves the Watchpoint back entrance and exits through the front into the outside area, but he knows he wants to clear his head. He looks up at the sky, at the orange streaking through the late evenings dusky pink, and frowns as he catches sight of the tall comm tower. A figure is perched on the top, twin streams of fabric rippling out behind him, gazing off into the distance and silhouetted by the sun. McCree squints to look at him, and he thinks he can see the outline of a long bow strapped across his back.

The gunslinger catches the lip of the building with his prosthetic hand and pulls himself up, climbing onto the ledge below the comm tower. He walks over to the edge, eyes fixed on the landscape of Gibraltar before him. He can almost feel Hanzo's gaze on him.

"You know," McCree says offhandedly, still looking out to the sea, "Genji told me what happened to him."

The cowboy's words travel far in the silent, still, humid evening, and Hanzo's reply is audible too. "Did he." Not a question.

"Mhmm," McCree hums. "Y'know, he says he's forgiven you. I'm willin' to give you the benefit of the doubt, but you better not hurt him again, alright?"

Hanzo's silhouette doesn't move as he says stiffly, "I have no intention of doing any such thing."

McCree nods, but doesn't reply. He's said his piece, and Hanzo's acknowledged it. There's nothing more to say; but still, McCree is strangely unwilling to move from the quiet atmosphere of the Watchpoint roof. The setting sun casts sparkling rays of light over the iridescent sea, and a bright red-striped buoy bobs gently a little way into the ocean, just by a small patch of orange rock. It's one of the most beautiful things McCree has seen in a long while.

He reaches for his hip flask, dangling at his side, and unscrews the top. The cap pops off with a satisfying sound and McCree takes a long swig from it. The familiar taste of whiskey fills his senses and he sighs.

McCree's ma always used to tell him to be polite whenever possible, and although he lost sight of that in his Deadlock and early Blackwatch days, he never forgot it. It's for this reason that McCree angles his head to look up at Hanzo's perched figure.

"Want some?" he offers, holding out the metal flask.

A disdainful expression crosses the archer's face. "What is that?"

McCree grins. "Whiskey."

Hanzo scoffs. "I have no interest in unsophisticated American alcohol."

"So... that's a no?" McCree asks, raising an eyebrow at the archer's taciturn reply.

"No," Hanzo answers curtly. McCree sees him holding a small rounded container, which he raises to his lips and drinks.

The cowboy frowns. "What's that, then?"

"Sake," is the short, blunt, reluctant reply. McCree doesn't ask to try any.

Hanzo doesn't offer.

The two lapse into silence, not exactly comfortable but not unpleasant, either. Eventually, McCree reluctantly tips his hat in goodbye to Hanzo and jumps back down off the roof to ground level, hitting the ground with a thud. The archer watches him go, climbing stealthily and rapidly down once he's sure the gunslinger is no longer paying attention to him.

When McCree re-enters the Watchpoint, the main entrance is almost empty. Only Lena is there, cross-legged on the floor, presumably waiting for him.

"There you are, Jesse, luv," she says, smiling as she jumps up to greet him. McCree hasn't been called that in a long while; the name surprises him, but he conceals his reaction with a matching grin. "The others have just gone to start the briefing. C'mon!" She giggles as she blinks into the next room and McCree strolls after her.

They pass through what looks like a cafeteria and an adjacent rec room, both looking surprisingly stocked and ready in spite of their abandonment, before Lena beckons McCree into a large conference room.

A huge round desk, with a space in the middle for whoever's speaking, lies in the centre of the room. On the far wall, opposite the doorway, are an array of glowing screens, currently shining a dim, sleep-mode blue. Soft chatter fills the Everyone is seated around the desk; as Lena takes her seat next to Winston, only two spaces remain empty. McCree walks over and pulls out a chair next to a short girl with dark hair and pink streaks across her cheeks, who looks almost too young to be here. She's blowing a large pink gum bubble, and as he sits down she bursts it with a pop and sticks out her hand.

"I'm Hana," she says, grinning at him. McCree shakes her hand, and kicks his spurred boots up onto the table, earning a sharp look from Winston.

"Pleasure to meet you," he replies. "The name's McCree."

"So, are you an actual cowboy?" she asks, giggling slightly.

McCree opens his mouth to answer, before he vaguely sees Hanzo slink into the room in his peripheral vision and sit on the empty chair next to him. Nobody else seems to notice his entrance, except Winston, who gives him a polite nod.

"Everyone," he says, standing up from his oversized seat, and all the assembled new Overwatch members turn to look at him. "Welcome to Overwatch.

"Now, as all of you should know, our assembly is currently illegal. We have to keep quiet about our activity; if one of you is discovered, it's very likely the rest of us will also be arrested. So, I ask that you take this seriously and not allow yourselves to be seen returning to Gibraltar."

Several people around the room nod in acquiescence. McCree doesn't need Winston's warning to know he can't allow himself to be followed; the huge bounty on the gunslinger's head already ensures that he has to be careful.

"So, um," Winston continues, looking awkward, "I thought we could maybe... introduce ourselves? To start?"

"Great idea, luv!" Lena chirps, and her encouragement seems to put the gorilla at ease. He smiles, pushing his glasses further up onto his nose.

"Right, well, I'll start. My name is Winston. I... um, I come from the moon."

"The moon!?" A guy with dreadlocks and a pair of headphones slung around his neck, whom McCree vaguely recognises from posters around various cities, is staring at Winston with a huge grin on his face. "Dude! That's awesome!"

Winston chuckles, a pleased smile spreading across his expression. "Thank you, Lúcio."

Lena is next, and kickstarts an agreement that the introductions are going clockwise around the table. "I'm Lena Oxton, but you can call me Tracer. I can control my own timeline, and I'm a qualified pilot." She grins and mimes shooting her twin pistols, making a pew-pew noise, and blows a lock of hair out of her face as she does so.

The introductions continue, with Angela, Fareeha, Reinhardt and Torbjörn repeating mostly already-familiar facts to McCree. He didn't know that Fareeha signed up with Helix Security, though; he makes a mental note to ask her about it. The skinny, grubby-looking man next to Torb, with what looks like a tire strapped to his back, is called Junkrat.

"And this is Roadhog," he announces in a strong Australian accent. "He don't talk much."

Roadhog grunts.

Next, looking slightly appalled at having to sit next to the dirt-covered pair, is a serious-looking woman wearing blue wearing a prosthetic that matches McCree's own; if more well-designed and streamlined. She introduces herself as Satya Vaswani, an architech, and McCree notices Lúcio's expression tense from across the table as she speaks.

"What does Vishkar want from Overwatch then, huh?" he asks, his tone suspicious.

Satya answers smoothly, "Nothing. We simply desire to aid this organisation in its peacekeeping aims."

Lúcio leans back in his chair, and says nothing.

Genji is seated next to Satya, and introduces himself in a cheerful tone. He's changed drastically from the last time McCree saw him; gone is the angry cyborg with red-and-black tubing coming out of him in various places. Genji's new body is sleek and metallic, with green detailing where once it was red. His visor still flashes the same way as his old eyes, though, and McCree is grateful that hasn't changed.

Sitting beside Genji (or, rather, floating) is an omnic clad in, if McCree's not wrong, Shambali clothing. He wonders why a Shambali monk is all the way over here, committing the crime of restarting Overwatch with the rest of them.

So what's a bucket o'bolts doing here then?" Junkrat asks loudly, glaring at the floating omnic.

Winston coughs, frowning. "We try not to use derogatory language here, Junkrat." Beside him, Lena glares at the Australian man. He pulls a face at her.

"No, it is alright," says the omnic. "My name is Tekhartha Zenyatta. It is an honour to be here."

"And an honour to be by your side, Master," Genji adds, almost reverently. A look crosses between them, and then McCree understands why the monk has come to Overwatch: Genji.

Lúcio is next, and he greets everyone with a grin and a wave. "I'm Lúcio. Great to be here!" he says.

"I love your music," Hana says from next to McCree, and the musician smiles at her. "Synaesthesia's releasing soon, right?"

"You bet," Lúcio tells her. "And I love your streams, too."

"Thanks!" Hana grins.

When he sees Winston's slightly mystified look, McCree's grateful to know he's not the only one who doesn't understand what they're talking about.

"My name's Hana Song, also known as D.Va. I'm a member of the Korean MEKA forces and I'm pretty famous," announces Hana confidently.

"How old are you?" Torbjörn asks incredulously, looking her up and down.

Hana answers quickly, jutting out her chin defiantly, as if she's been expecting this exact question. "Nineteen."

Torbjörn mutters something indiscernible under his breath.

"Jeez, what's up with him?" Hana murmurs quietly, and it's all McCree can do to keep from chuckling as the turn to speak passes on to him.

"Pleasure to meet y'all," he says. "The name's McCree."

Unlike most other people, his introduction is short and impersonal. McCree has never been that trusting of a person, and the feeling is multiplied now that everyone around him has the potential to get him arrested; he'd rather not give too much personal information out if he doesn't have to.

Hanzo's words are similarly curt, even shorter. "Hanzo."

Genji scratches the back of his neck and looks down. Winston clears his throat.

"Yes, well, thank you, everyone," he finishes. "Um... so, now you're free to do whatever you'd like around the base. On your way out of this room, I'll give you your communicator units and your room numbers, and take your prints. And... I can explain how to use the units if you want." He hesitates, seemingly trying to remember what to say next. "Ah, yes, and I'd like everyone to meet back here at eight o'clock tomorrow, if that's alright."

There's a collective noise of assent around the room, and Winston beams. "That's all, everyone! Thank you!"

Winston gets up and heads towards the doorway, holding a box of black comm units. Hanzo is first out the room, barely pausing to get his unit and details from the gorilla before he vanishes from view. McCree is still languidly getting up from his chair as he disappears, and he's left to wonder exactly what's going through the taciturn archer's mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry to announce this fic will be ON HOLD until I have completed its Blackwatch predecessor, Dust and Gold. It's not discontinued and I will be restarting it as soon as possible, but I just thought I'd let you know.
> 
> Thanks so much for all your support, and go check out Dust and Gold for the story of McCree and Reaper in Blackwatch!

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to Sake and Whiskey! It's a relatively McCree-centric fic that begins with the Recall going through to Post-Canon.
> 
> feat. mchanzo, angst and family
> 
> (Note: Part 1 of Duality, Dust and Gold, focuses on Jesse's Blackwatch days. There'll be some references to it in Sake and Whiskey, but they're readable without each other. However, if you're in the mood for gradual dad!Gabe, why not give it a try?)


End file.
